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    Angelfire
    Angelfire
    Angelfire
    Ebook413 pages6 hours

    Angelfire

    By Linda Lael Miller

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    The New Zealand wilderness is no place for an innocent young girl escaping an arranged marriage....

    Shocked by the threat of being forced to marry an aging magistrate, Bliss Stafford flees her New Zealand home. But a chance encounter—and the barrel of her father's pistol—wed her to Jamie McKenna, a handsome, headstrong rancher whose bold touch inflamed her innocent senses. Yet Jamie's heart was captive to another—and to a hidden, bitter sorrow. But young, courageous Bliss is determined to face the secrets of his past and claim the radiant prize of a lifetime of tomorrows.

    Passion, heartache, and the power of romance set New Zealand aflame with Angelfire in Linda Lael Miller's lush tale of a young woman audacious enough to settle for nothing less than love.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPocket Books
    Release dateMay 24, 2011
    ISBN9781451655261
    Author

    Linda Lael Miller

    New York Times-bestselling author, Linda Lael Miller was born and raised in Northport, Washington. The author of over 50 novels and the daughter of a U.S. marshal, Linda has bid farewell to her home in Scottsdale, Arizona, and returned to her rural, Western roots. On the horse property in the arid Arizona desert, Linda now enjoys riding her horse Skye in the early morning sun. She has finally come home to the lifestyle that has inspired numerous award-winning historical novels including those set in the Old West.

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    4/5

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    • 2/5
      I dont dislike it. Liked the storyline of the book. Liked the hero also. I just did not like the reasons the heroine used to run away. Every couple pages and she is planning another way to run. The hero never comes out and clearly explains his relationship with another woman but the heroine doesn’t once believe that the hero might not be cheating on her. Even the ending did not tie off all the lose ends properly.

      1 person found this helpful

    Book preview

    Angelfire - Linda Lael Miller

    Cover: Angelfire, by Linda Lael Miller

    Dear Readers, Old and New,

    It is with joy that I give you one of the novels written earlier in my career. Some of you have read it, and will feel as though you’re meeting old friends; to others, it will offer a completely new reading experience.

    Either way, this tale is a gift of my heart.

    The characters in this and all of my books are the kind of people I truly admire, and try to emulate. They are smart, funny, brave, and persistent. The women are strong, and while they love their men, they have goals of their own, and they are independent, sometimes to a fault. More than anything else, these stories are about people meeting challenges and discovering the hidden qualities and resources within themselves.

    We all have to do that.

    We are blessed—and cursed—to live in uncertain times.

    Let us go forward, bravely, with our dearest ideals firmly in mind. They’re all we have—and all we need.

    May you be blessed,

    Linda Lael Miller

    4235 S. Cheney-Spokane Road, Ste. #1

    P.O. Box 19461

    Spokane, WA 99219

    CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

    Angelfire, by Linda Lael Miller, Pocket

    For Sisters-in-love:

    Susan Burgess

    Donna Mahar

    Karen Miller

    Karon Lael

    and

    Maureen Mo Hamilton

    Prologue

    Near Brisbane, Australia—December 1872

    THE BARK OF THE ACACIA TREE FELT ROUGH AGAINST THE INSIDES of Jamie McKenna’s wrists and the midday sun burned hot, scalding his bare back. Resting his forehead against the tree trunk to which he was bound, he closed his eyes and fought back the panic that threatened to engulf him. And he waited. That was the worst part, the waiting.

    Jamie? The feminine voice came from behind him. I brought you some water.

    Jamie opened his eyes, and his jawline hardened. You shouldn’t ’ave come, lass, he said. His voice sounded hoarse, hurting as it emerged from his dry throat.

    Peony came to stand boldly beside him, her enormous green eyes filled with sadness. I have a knife, she whispered. I’ll cut that rope and we’ll escape, the two of us together.

    In view of what was to come, the idea was not without appeal, but Jamie knew that the master would find them if they tried running away. The punishment for such flagrant rebellion would be that much worse, and it would include Peony. No, he said.

    Tears welling in her eyes, Peony opened a canteen and lifted it to Jamie’s parched lips. She was a beautiful woman, with her emerald eyes and golden hair. At twenty-five, she was eight years older than Jamie, and she belonged to Increase Pipher as surely as his favorite horse and the gold-handled walking cane he carried.

    I can’t bear this, she choked out.

    The water was sweet in Jamie’s mouth and it soothed his throat as he swallowed. You’ve got to get out of’ere before someone sees you, he muttered.

    At least let me set you free, Peony pleaded, clutching at Jamie’s arm with one hand. Although she was agitated, her touch was cool, soothing.

    Do you know what Pipher’d do if he caught you? he countered, in a whisper gruff with fear. I’ll tell you, Peony: he’d do just what he’s going to do to me now—tie you to a tree and ’ave you whipped.

    Peony squeezed her eyes shut. Her slender alabaster throat worked, but no sound came out of her mouth.

    Go, Jamie said. Please.

    The rumble of male voices rolled on the muggy summer air like thunder preceding a storm. They were coming, the wait was over.

    Jamie steeled himself for the ordeal he would face, determined to get through it without giving Pipher the satisfaction of breaking him. Run, Peony, he rasped, and after a moment’s hesitation, she disappeared into the trees that surrounded the small clearing.

    Pipher and his men arrived seconds after the woman had gone. Jamie refused to turn his head to look back at the man who had enslaved him; the old man was forced to come and stand at his side.

    Pipher smiled, showing his enormous yellow teeth—horse’s teeth, Peony called them—and the sun glinted in his snow-white hair and muttonchop whiskers. Hello, lad, he said, in a voice that could only have been described as cordial.

    Jamie glared at his tormenter, knowing that Pipher wanted him to beg, telling him by his expression and his bearing that he’d die first.

    The plantation owner threw back his head and laughed, and Jamie felt a fine mist of saliva settle on his skin.

    God, but you’re a stubborn little mick! the old man marveled.

    Increase looked back at his henchmen, who twittered halfheartedly at his subtle cue. Jamie knew some of those men pitied him, but instead of feeling any kinship with them, he hated the lot.

    Pipher lifted his cane, with its handle of beautifully molded gold, and tapped Jamie’s shoulder with it. Where’s that quick tongue of yours now, Mr. McKenna? he asked, his foul breath fanning over Jamie’s face and causing bile to rise in his throat.

    Jamie swallowed and said nothing, and his gaze remained steady, defiant. His message was clear enough, he knew. It said: Go to hell. And Pipher understood.

    The whip, the planter grated out, infuriated, extending one hand.

    Someone came forward with the coil of black leather, and Pipher made a point of unfurling it with a sharp crack. He was skillful with the lash; even when there was no punishment to be meted out, he often practiced for hours at a time.

    The rich man stepped back, out of sight, and again Jamie heard the whip crack. His stomach muscles tensed; he forced himself to let them go slack. The others had told him that it would hurt less that way.

    The first lash weakened Jamie’s knees; the pain was like fire raging across his sunburned back. He made himself think of his brother, Reeve, and of the old days in Ireland as he listened to the whip being drawn back with a whoosh and then heard it slicing through the thick air again.

    Sweat beaded on his forehead and upper lip as the strip of leather lacerated his flesh a second time, but he did not cry out. Not one lash or a thousand could make him do that.

    He counted ten more biting slashes before the summer air went dark and his legs refused to support him any longer.

    The sun was low on the horizon when Jamie regained consciousness. He was still bound to the tree, though he’d slipped to his knees, and Peony was sawing frantically at his bonds with a kitchen knife.

    Jamie’s back was ablaze with pain, and the tree bark had scraped one side of his face raw. His throat was all but swollen shut and the smell and taste of blood made his stomach churn. Go—away— he managed to croak.

    Tears were streaming down Peony’s cheeks. Just shut up, Jamie McKenna, she said, still slicing at the thick rope. We’ve no time to argue—I don’t know if the blaze caught properly or not.

    When his bonds gave way, Jamie rolled to the ground, unable to hold himself upright. He was disoriented; the earth felt spongy beneath him and the sky seemed to have fallen in, thick and smothering.

    Left you here to die, he did, Peony prattled to herself. Boar’s bait, that’s what he called you. The devil’s waiting for that old man in hell’s front parlor, I’ll tell you that. Jamie heard the knife thump against the ground, felt her efforts to lift him to his feet. I’ve got a place to hide you, she said, breathing hard from the struggle, if you’ll—just—get—up!

    Nausea roiled in Jamie’s stomach, so ferocious was the pain. At great cost, he turned his head away from Peony and vomited.

    She stroked the back of his head until the violent spasms of sickness had ceased, then began pulling at him again and yammering, Jamie, please—you’ve got to get up—you’ve just got to—

    I—can’t— he rasped, willing himself to die.

    As broken as he was, Jamie felt the fury surge through Peony’s body just as though the two of them were linked somehow, sharing the same emotions. I thought you had more courage than that! she cried. Maybe that old beggar’s right about you—maybe you’re not worth that odd bit of brass you wear round your neck!

    The challenge gave Jamie the strength to thrust himself to his knees. He touched the beggar’s badge, given to him so long ago in Dublin, and thought of Reeve and his poor lost mother. Because he knew they’d ask it of him, he battled the dizziness that swelled around him like a dark mist and then, with Peony’s help, rose to his feet.

    His friend supported him and, at the same time, led him. He could barely see, but the sound of crackling underbrush met his ears and he caught the scent of burnt sugar on the wind. Where ... ?

    Never you mind where, Jamie McKenna, Peony replied, and there were tears in her voice. Just never you mind. You and I are going to do what we should have done long ago—we’re going to put this place behind us.

    Jamie hadn’t the stamina to argue that any attempt at escaping would not only be futile but perhaps fatal as well, so he leaned on Peony and allowed her to lead him away through the acacia trees and the specterlike gums.

    Just when he was sure that he couldn’t take another step, they reached a lean-to of some sort and Jamie sank facedown onto a bed of sweet straw. Peony bustled about, making noise, but he didn’t bother to look and see what she was doing. His body and his spirit screamed for sleep.

    This is going to burn like the fires of Hades, Peony announced reluctantly, but I’ve got to clean those wounds or you’ll surely die of the infection.

    A cry of agony exploded in Jamie’s throat when she poured what felt like liquid brimstone over his lacerated back, and then, perhaps mercifully, he blacked out.

    He dreamed that he was at home in Ireland, where December brought cold winds that dampened the very marrow of a man’s bones. He was in the cottage off that Dublin alley, and his mother was there, stoking up the fire that guttered in the grate.

    You’re a good lad, she said, over one shoulder. Aye. No matter what Father McDougal says, you’re a good lad, Jamie me boy.

    In the dream, Jamie asked where Reeve was, and that was when his mother turned. Her face was a blank expanse of skin, with no features to be seen.

    You’re a good lad, Jamie me boy, she said again. Aye. No matter what—

    Reeve! the young Jamie screamed, terrified. Reeve!

    Hush now, scolded a gentle voice from somewhere above, in the waking world. It’s no use calling out for him. There’s just you and me now, Jamie. Just you and me.

    Chapter 1

    New Zealand—August 1888

    THE SHINY STEEL TINES OF THE PITCHFORK PLUNGED THROUGH the mixture of hay and straw in which Bliss Stafford had spent the night, missing her face by mere inches. Her eyes widened and a startled scream escaped her before she could stop it. She sat bolt upright in the haystack, spiky bits sticking in her cinnamon-colored hair and clinging to her coat. Just what do you think you’re doing, you bloody fool!

    A tall, solidly built man with light hair and eyes the color of a summer sea was staring at her, obviously confounded. He was wearing a heavy coat of dark navy woolen, along with gloves and a floppy leather hat, and his breath made a plume in the frigid winter air.

    You nearly skewered me! Bliss protested, struggling to her feet and dusting bits of straw from her shoulders. It is virtually impossible, she reflected to herself, to maintain a dignified manner when one has just slept in a pile of hay.

    Hugging herself, she began stomping both feet in an effort to get warm. She hadn’t eaten since the morning before, when the last of the food she’d stolen from the refreshment table at Alexander’s party had run out, and her stomach rumbled loudly.

    The farmer grinned, showing pearly-white teeth. You’ve got some gall, lass. This happens to be my barn you’re trespassing in.

    Bliss thought she heard a faint lilt of the Irish in his voice, but she considered this only briefly. There were too many other matters that needed thinking about. Such as extracting herself from this unsettling situation. She thrust out her chin and challenged, I haven’t hurt your stupid barn, now have I?

    This time, the man laughed outright. With a shake of his handsome head, he flung the pitchfork deftly into the hay. Bliss shuddered, thinking how easily she could have been pinioned to the floor of this isolated stable.

    Name’s McKenna, the farmer said, turning to walk away even as he made this announcement. It was plain that he expected Bliss to follow meekly after him. Because she was hungry and cold, she could not have done otherwise, but it was irritating to comply with an order so offhand that it hadn’t even been uttered aloud.

    Stafford, Bliss answered in kind, bracing herself for the winter cold as they left the relative shelter of the barn. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the farm the night before, having taken shelter at a very late hour, but now she saw that it was a substantial place with a house built of white stone and sheep dotting the deep green of the hillsides. The whisper of the sea and a certain salty scent to the air told her that the water was not far away.

    Mr. McKenna’s boots made a crisp sound on the board steps leading up to the porch of his house. Bliss decided that with a place this size, there must surely be a Mrs. McKenna and a covey of children. The thought filled her with a vague sense of regret.

    Reaching the front door, which was made of some heavy, unplaned wood, McKenna opened it and stepped back, for all the world like a gentleman might do, to let her pass ahead of him.

    With a queenly lift of her chin, Bliss proceeded into the house. The scent of meat and eggs being fried teased her nostrils and her stomach grumbled again, spoiling her attempt at nonchalance.

    Is that all the name you have, then? Mr. McKenna asked, hanging his hat on one of several pegs beside the door. Just Stafford? His pale blue eyes twinkled as he shrugged out of his coat.

    Bliss, she admitted, though grudgingly. Since her flight from Alexander’s party several days before, she’d been secretive about her name. Not that any great number of people had asked.

    He chuckled and shook his head, in the throes of some private wonder, and then ran one hand through his hair. Come along then, Bliss Stafford, and we’ll see about quieting that stomach of yours.

    She followed him, still wearing her shabby plaid coat, peering into this room and that as they passed down a wide hallway toward the back of the house. The place had a certain spartan prosperity about it; there would be few luxuries here, but nothing needful would be lacking, either.

    The kitchen was spacious and filled with wintry light, and the glare dazzled Bliss so that she had to blink several times in order to see again. A lovely Maori woman was standing at the stove, cooking, and again Bliss felt a peculiar stirring of sadness.

    Found her in the barn, Mr. McKenna said, and that was his only comment. He went to the washstand in a far corner of the huge kitchen and poured water from a crockery pitcher into a basin.

    Bliss felt a blush moving beneath her freckles. She smiled lamely at the cook, who responded with a pleasant look but said nothing, and Mr. McKenna made a tremendous splashing as he washed.

    Feeling very self-conscious, Bliss intertwined her fingers in front of her and rocked once or twice on the worn heels of her high-button shoes. I suppose you’re wondering what I was doing sleeping in your barn, she piped, though Mr. McKenna had not actually inquired about that peculiar occurrence. Well, I’ll be happy to tell you.

    The handsome farmer rolled up the sleeves of his blue cambric workshirt and grinned. That’s good of you, he remarked as the cook added another place to the table, which had been set for one, then discreetly left the kitchen. Won’t you sit down?

    Bliss was stung by the mocking formality of the question, as well as by the courtly bow her host executed. With a sniff, she settled herself at the table, still wearing her coat. The smell of the fried meat and eggs made her light-headed, she was so hungry.

    It just so happens that I’m on my way to America, she announced, scooping food onto her plate with as much dignity as she could manage.

    The ice-blue eyes were twinkling again. An ambitious jaunt, that. What’s in the States? Mr. McKenna took what remained of the eggs and mutton, politely failing to notice that Bliss had left him relatively less to eat than one might have expected.

    Bliss swallowed before answering, for even though she had spent the night in a stranger’s barn and been forced by circumstances to accept what amounted to charity, her manners had not deserted her. She thought of all the glowing letters she’d received from her mother over the years, and she could hardly wait to get to the place.

    Everything, she said, in a musing, dreamy voice that would surely have brought desultory comment from Alexander—had Alexander been there, that is. She peered across the table at her benefactor, squinting a little because her eyes were tired. Have you ever been to America?

    Do you need spectacles? Mr. McKenna countered, chewing.

    Bliss was mildly insulted. No, I don’t, she snapped, and it was rude of you to change the subject that way!

    He looked amused; it was obvious that he didn’t care in the slightest whether other people perceived him as mannerly or not. Sorry, he said, with an utter lack of sincerity.

    If Bliss hadn’t been so ravenous and the food hadn’t been so good, she would have gotten up from her chair and walked out of Mr. McKenna’s house at that moment. As it was, she refrained from comment and continued to eat.

    I know a Yank, remarked the man across the table from Bliss.

    She stopped eating and leaned forward in her chair. She didn’t mention her mother, for if she did, she’d surely be asked to explain the whys and wherefores of the woman’s departure. Really?

    A brisk nod was the only reply; Bliss’s obvious interest seemed to be lost on McKenna.

    She narrowed her eyes. Well, who is this person? she demanded.

    The farmer gave her a look of feigned surprise, mingled with amusement, and shrugged his powerful shoulders. My sister-in-law, Maggie.

    Bliss scooted forward on her chair. Her mother had told her a great deal about America, but there were still so many questions that sometimes Bliss thought she wouldn’t be able to contain them. Does she live near here? Might I meet her?

    McKenna rolled his remarkable blue eyes, as though Bliss’s request had been totally untoward. No to both questions, love—she lives in Australia.

    Bliss allowed the inappropriate endearment her host had used to pass unchallenged. She was very curious about this Maggie woman. Why did she leave America, do you know?

    I don’t believe I ever asked her, he replied, with a pensive frown that furrowed his forehead. Things have a way of getting hectic when a bloke’s around Maggie McKenna.

    An odd sensation of jealousy rippled through Bliss’s spirit, and she sat up a little straighter in her chair, her food forgotten even though her hunger had not been assuaged. You know my first name, she said stiffly. In all fairness, I should be given yours.

    Another grin creased the sun-browned face. It’s Jamie, he complied, with a near-elegant nod of his head. Then, before Bliss could say anything else at all, he added, It’s a very long way to America, you know. Exactly how were you planning to get there?

    He spoke as though all her plans had been canceled, and Bliss bridled with annoyance. Why, I was planning to swim, of course, she answered tartly.

    Jamie favored her with an unfriendly look that brought a strange warmth to her blood. Whoever named you Bliss was a fanciful sort, he said. A moment later, he was waving his fork at her accusingly. You’ve run away from a husband or a father, haven’t you?

    He’d struck very close to the truth—so close that Bliss’s face heated and she had to avert her eyes for a moment. When she had recovered her aplomb, she met Jamie’s snapping gaze squarely and replied, Not a husband, actually. I was only betrothed to Alexander—we never married.

    Jamie scowled at her, as though she’d caused him great trial and turmoil by sleeping one night in his barn and eating some of his food. I’ve got better things to do, he informed her, than take you back to wherever you came from, lass.

    Bliss pushed away her plate and slid back her chair. No one was taking her back to Wellington and that grasping, drooling old man her father wanted her to marry, ever. I’ve imposed upon you quite long enough, Mr. McKenna, she said, in a cold voice. I’ll be on my way now.

    You’re not going anywhere, Jamie responded flatly, finishing his breakfast. It’s winter out there and you’re obviously a bit down on your luck. You’ll have a bath and get yourself into bed.

    Bliss felt her throat close painfully. Her ink-blue eyes went round and she managed to squeeze out one squeaky word. Bed?

    Mr. McKenna’s laughter came suddenly, uproariously. And now she thinks I want me way with ’er, he marveled aloud, once his mirth had subsided a little. His voice was thick with the brogue that had only been hinted at before.

    Her face bright red behind its sprinkling of freckles, Bliss was too insulted to be relieved that her virtue was in no immediate danger. I just thought—well, a man living all alone, so far from civilization—

    I don’t live alone, Jamie reminded her, and Auckland’s near enough.

    Bliss would have been pleased to learn that Auckland, her destination, was close by, if she hadn’t felt so bothered by the idea of that lovely Maori woman living there in that sturdy, no-nonsense house. She sniffed haughtily to hide her uncertainties and said, If I can truly be sure that you won’t molest me, Mr. McKenna, I would very much appreciate that bath you offered.

    A spark danced in his eyes. I’m not sure I can bathe you, Duchess, and still stay within the bounds of civilized behavior.

    Rich color throbbed in Bliss’s face. I wasn’t speaking literally, of course, she told him in tones of cold rigidity, and you are a rascal for implying that I was.

    The laughter lingered in Jamie McKenna’s gaze even though the rest of his face showed a most serious composure. Have you had quite enough to eat, he asked quietly, glancing pointedly at Bliss’s empty plate, or should I have another sheep slaughtered?

    Before Bliss could think of a suitably scathing response, the Maori woman returned. Her skin was a warm sandalwood color and her rich black hair flowed down her back in glistening ebony waves. Her figure was at once slender and womanly, and she wore a skirt and an off-the-shoulder blouse. The scent of some mysterious spice floated around her as she cleared the table, her dark eyes meeting neither Jamie’s gaze nor Bliss’s.

    Bliss was dying to know the woman’s name, but she was damned if she’d ask. The relationship between Mr. McKenna and his cook was none of her affair, after all.

    Oh, but the low, companionable note in his voice as he addressed the lady made Bliss ache in an inexplicable way. Carra, Miss Stafford is in need of a bath, a fire, and a feather bed, in roughly that order, he said. Will you see to it?

    Even though the two hadn’t touched, it was almost as though Jamie had reached out and squeezed Carra’s slender brown hand. Carra nodded before turning to carry the plates and flatware away to the cast-iron sink.

    Bliss put her feeling of bereftness down to her hasty flight from Wellington and the rigors involved. She lowered her eyes, and when she looked up again, Jamie was gone and Carra was standing beside the table, waiting politely for Bliss to notice her.

    There was a stairway at the back of the kitchen, and Carra led the way up it. The second floor of the house was as practical and austere as the rooms Bliss had glimpsed downstairs. A certain sadness possessed her; she sensed that Mr. McKenna didn’t truly live here—this was only a place where he sometimes stopped.

    Mr. McKenna travels a great deal, doesn’t he? she asked, in a quiet voice, as Carra pushed open the door of a room at the far end of the hallway.

    The Maori woman looked back at Bliss over one smooth brown shoulder and nodded, a flicker of surprise appearing, just briefly, in her eyes. Yes.

    There were a lot of other questions Bliss wanted to ask, and all of them were patently improper. She was going to have to learn to curb her curiosity before it got her into serious trouble.

    With the utmost courtesy, Carra waited to one side of the doorway until Bliss had entered. The room was spacious, or perhaps it only appeared so because the narrow bed, wash-stand, and chest took up so little space. There was a small stone fireplace on one wall, and Mr. McKenna’s attractive housekeeper crossed the room to kneel on the hearth and wrestle with the damper.

    The chill of winter was upon Bliss’s soul, as well as her body. Hugging herself and speaking in a very bright voice, she tried to make conversation. Did you know that it’s summer in America at this very moment?

    Carra showed her true feelings for the first time: a look of indulgent disdain moved across her face and then was gone. I’ll bring up the tub and some hot water soon, she said. Her tones were melodic, her accent no different from Bliss’s own. Have you a bag?

    Bliss remembered the satchel she’d left behind in Mr. McKenna’s barn and clapped one hand to her mouth. Lord knew she had little enough in the way of worldly goods now that she’d left Wellington in such a hurry. She was going to have to be more careful or her best dress, her leatherbound diary, and the ribbon-bound letters her mother had sent from San Francisco would be lost as well. I’ve left it in the hay, she said, starting toward the door.

    In the hallway, she collided with Mr. McKenna, who was wearing his heavy coat again and carrying her bedraggled old carpetbag.

    Looking for this, then? he asked, with that touch of the Irish making a soft, lilting music in his voice.

    Greedily, Bliss reached out for her bag and clutched it close. After a moment, though, she relaxed. I can be most forgetful, she confessed.

    Jamie said nothing in response; he simply looked at Bliss in an odd way for several seconds and only when Carra cleared her throat did he turn and walk away.

    I’ll be back with the tub in a few minutes, Carra said, her eyes never quite meeting Bliss’s as she lingered in the hallway. The water will take a while to heat, of course.

    Of course, Bliss responded, wanting nothing so much as to be alone with her thoughts. It was a pity, she reflected, that Alexander had never engendered the feeling of angry sweetness in her that Jamie McKenna did. Had that been the case, she wouldn’t have run away.

    She gave the door a push and it closed with a click. Biting her lower lip, she carried her bag to the chest and set it down. After a few moments of struggle with the catch, she opened the satchel and took out her journal. In her haste, she had left Wellington without her pen and ink.

    After tucking the journal back inside her bag, Bliss went to the door and opened it decisively. She would further trouble the long-suffering Carra for a bottle of ink and a nibbed pen.

    She was down the rear stairs and partway through the kitchen—enormous kettles of water had already been set on the stove to heat—when she heard the conversation drifting toward her from the hallway that led to the front of the house.

    Just let her go on to Auckland and catch a ship to the States, Carra was saying, her voice low but full of anger.

    They’d chew her up and spit her out, those Yanks, Jamie muttered. He was clearly annoyed, though his hostility seemed to be directed toward the entire population of the United States instead of Carra.

    What concern is that of yours? his housekeeper demanded.

    There was a chilly pause and then Jamie responded, with a cutting lightness, I found her in me barn, love. I guess I ’ave a proprietary interest.

    Instinct told Bliss that she was about to be discovered; she whirled and dashed back across the kitchen, pretending to arrive as Carra stormed in, glaring.

    It didn’t seem like a good time to ask for a pen and ink. I came to see if you needed any help, Bliss lied.

    Carra’s wide brown eyes burned with a pagan fire. I’ve gotten along remarkably well without your help until now, she replied.

    Bliss retreated a step, at a loss for words.

    Carra muttered something, crossing the room and wrenching open the door of a huge and well-stocked pantry. She disappeared inside and then came out, moments later, carrying an enormous copper washtub. You can bathe here, she said, letting the tub clatter to the floor. I’m not about to carry water upstairs for you.

    So much for the ignorant native, cowed by the conquerors, Bliss thought to herself. With a lift of her chin, she countered, I’ll carry the water myself. I don’t make a habit of bathing in strange men’s kitchens.

    That, retorted Carra sourly, is a big relief.

    Bliss had tried hard to refrain from asking impertinent questions, but one slipped past her resolve. Do you?

    Do I what?

    Do you bathe right here, in Mr. McKenna’s kitchen?

    Carra stared at her for a moment and then laughed, and there was a begrudging warmth in her face. You are an odd little creature. Tell me, do you always ask such outrageous questions?

    Bliss sighed and began unbuttoning her coat. Yes, most times I do.

    Carra’s expression had turned solemn again, in the wink of an eye. She regarded Bliss in silence for an instant, then took the patched, hay-flecked coat from her arms and carried it outside.

    Bliss bent to pick up the copper tub—it was lighter than it looked, but still cumbersome—and lugged it upstairs and into her room. To her discomfort, Jamie

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